Not one to make travel goals, I did make one when coming to Spain: visit all 17 autonomous communities at least once before going home. While Madrid, Barcelona and Seville are the stars of the tourist dollar show (and my hard-earned euros, let’s not kid around here), I am a champion for Spain’s little-known towns and regions. Having a global view of this country has come through living in Andalucía, working in Galicia and studying in Castilla y León, plus extensive travel throughout Spain.

Oh goody! I get to talk about one of my favorite places in Spain this month!

Ever since my friend literally stood over me as I looked for fares, then forced me to buy a ticket to La Coruña that I couldn’t afford, I’ve swooned over the northwesternmost province of Spain. Galicia is acutely Spanish while not being very Spanish at all, thanks to its Celtic roots. It’s a land ruled by superstition, by an aversion to long spans of rain along the coast, by plump seafood and white wine. Where stone churches and hórreos stand guard. Where language is sung, not spoken. Where rivers and mountains and forests abound. Where I’ve had one serendipitous experience after another.

I’ve spent more time in Galicia than I have in the city where I studied abroad, Valladolid. Coruña is like a second home to me after five summers teaching there.

Name: Galicia, or Galiza in local gallego

Population: 2.7 million

Provinces: Four; A Coruña, Lugo, Ourense, Pontevedra

When: May 2008, 10th of 17

About Galicia: Galicia is one of those places you’d probably peg as part of Scotland because of its weather and ever-present bagpipes, and the fact that it’s rather isolated – the high-speed trains won’t reach the region until 2017 (or so hey say). I both welcome this and fear it because Galicia is so staunchly suyo, that a boom in tourism may mean losing a little bit of what makes Galicia, Galicia.

There’s a long version of the story of Galicia, but here’s the short one:

Humans first began inhabiting the northwest corner – mostly north of the Duero River – of the Iberian peninsula in the Middle Paleolithic period slowly and eventually the Iron Age and Castro period. These people were of Celtic origin and called Gallaeci. Eventually becoming part of the Roman Empire and then the Visigoth, these kingdoms have left their mark on Galicia’s history and architecture before eventually falling to the Christian Empire in Northern Spain.

The Middle Ages was a time of prosperity in Galicia, and even though the region was still under the Crown of León, inhabitants were ruled by seven kings in seven kingdoms that were able to retain their culture and language, though there were bloody conflicts between brotherhoods and kingdoms. Like today, the area was untamed and a bit unruly. Galicia was awarded autonomous status in the 16th Century with the Audencia Nacional, and nowadays, there’s a call for becoming an independent kingdom. Old habits die hard, I guess.

Must-sees: I should really start this section off with must-eats, rather than must-sees. Galicia has a wealth of regional dishes and a thriving tapas culture in its larger cities, so I’d wholeheartedly suggest fasting before heading up there. I’m serious.

Let’s start with the seafood. Galicia’s home to 1,500km of coastline, so mussels, crabs, octopus and the much-heralded percebes, or goose barnacles, are prominent on menus. Round up some friends and split a mariscada.

Then there’s the cheese. From smoky San Simón from Lugo and the boob-shaped queso de tetilla, you’re likely to skip dessert (unless you get a slice of Tarta de Santiago, an almond-based cake). Pair it with a crisp but sweet albariño wine which also matches nicely with seafood. Don’t miss Galician-raised beef, pimientos del padrón and collared greens.

The majority of the region’s big sites are clustered around the coastal areas, particularly Coruña, Vigo and ancient tourist hotspot, Santiago de Compostela. Inland, the population is more sparse, though there are highlights in natural spaces, sacred areas and larger capitals.

Starting with political capital Santiago de Compostela: the ancient stone streets and cathedral where the remains of Saint James are reputedly buried, many tourists come to Santiago for a taste of Galicia. This UNESCO World Heritage City boasts a number of sites, a train station and an international airport, in addition to being the end of the Pilgrim’s Route to Santiago (though many pilgrims choose to travel to Finisterre). Read my posts about Santiago here.

A Coruña, nicknamed the Crystal City is nearby and sits on the end of a peninsula. Famous for its beaches and galerías (and, uh, the flagship Zara), it’s a bustling city that merits a day. Visit its beaches, the Torre de Hercules lighthouse and Cerro de San Cristóbal for views of the bay. Read more about Coruña here.

Vigo is another large city, situated on one of the rías, is famous for its oysters and is the gateway to the Islas Ciès and Portugal to the south. It’s nearby to the much talked about Islas Ciès and its gorgeous beaches.

Inland, Lugo boasts sweeping farmlands and humble hamlets, and the capital retains its medieval city walls, which can be visited. You can also find the Praia As Catedrais – considered one of the most beautiful in Spain – in this province, just a taxi ride away from Ribadeo. Scattered around the region are celtic ruins, great hiking trails and roadside stone churches and cruceiros. Being a near-perfect marriage of sea and land, your time in Galicia should be spent outdoors (so long as the rain holds off!).

My take: My first taste of Galicia was a milanesa from fabled tapas bar La Bombilla in La Coruña. We ordered enormous croquetas and juicy hunks of tortilla, served to us on plastic plates by seriously rotund women who had probably spent the better part of their lives in that kitchen. Everyone seemed…happy. Maybe it’s because they were eating and drinking, because I was grinning right along with them. Because, Estrella Galicia.

I actually credit Galicia with opening up my severely limited taste palate to seafood. I swallowed mussels and octopus at an alarming rate that weekend. The rain held off so we could wade into the frigid waters at the Playa del Orzán, and we sipped gigantic and cheap rum and Fantas at dimly lit alternative bars. I vowed to come back, and soon after, I swapped a teaching position in the islands to return to Galicia. It rained all summer. I loved it.

For five continuous summers I risked the rain for three or four weeks in Coruña, and it’s quickly become one of my favorite cities in Spain. So many of my most treasured Spain memories – watching Spain win the World Cup in 2010, staying out all night at the Saint James Feast in Santiago, walking the Camino – have taken place out here.

To say that Barcelona (as a city) underwhelms me is an understatement. And its food? Ugh, I don’t even want to go there. In my half a dozen previous trips to Catalonia, a place renowned for being avant garde – in food and otherwise – I’d never really had a decent food experience. From the overpriced paella on Las Ramblas to reheated pintxos in El Born, I was decebut.

That’s where Eat Guides came in. Written by Regina Winkle-Bryan, an transplant from foodie haven Portland to the Ciudad Condal, and Adrián Benítez Martos, a born and bred barcelonés, did my homework for me. I was thrilled to have Reg send me a copy of the ebook she and Adri had penned to help tourists like me understand catalan cuisine and where to find it.

Using my hotel near La Rambla and the Boquería as a starting point, I had a few hours to kill before meeting a friend and wanted to dive headfirst into real catalan cuisine. The 123-paged book lists food joints by both neighborhood and proximity to big sites, but I was interested in seeing if there was real food amidst the tourist traps in the old city. My rules – I had to be able to reach it on foot, wouldn’t order from a menu translated into English and would try four places over the course of the day.

Granja La Pallaresa

I had already zeroed in on my first stop of the day before touching down in Barcelona. After taking the first flight out in the morning, I was starving by the time I checked into the hotel, so I quickly dropped my bags and walked into the Barri Gòtic. Granja La Pallaresa as literally 30 meters off Las Ramblas, but you would have never known.

This is lo mío: Castillian and catalan blended into one incomprehensible buzz in the wood-paneled bar manned by a portly woman and her husband, who sported a black satin bow tie. I didn’t ask to see a menu, but ordered what Regina suggested: an ensaimada pastry and a cup of French chocolate.

I watched as the other patrons read newspapers in catalan and picked at their churros. My flaky ensaimada arrived with so much powdeed sugar that it left a ring on the table as I paid my 4,15€ and drank down the chocolate.

Carrer Petrixol, 11. Open Monday to Saturday from 9am to 1pm and 4pm to 9pm, and Sundays from 9am to 1pm and 5pm to 9pm.

Bodega

When Catherine and I went to Barcelona a decade ago, we stayed in El Raval. It’s gritty, it’s long been considered seedy and unsafe, and it’s full of old man bars.

I wanted to take the long way to my next stop, but the long way meant passing a whole slew of old man bars, and I always get sucked into them. Just two blocks down, I found that these so-called ‘bodegas’ are staples in working neighborhoods. Much more than just a bar, the bodegas also sell drinks and snacks, as well as canned goods, and locals have their preferred place. I ordered a vemouth at 1,85€, which came with four mussels.

This place was one of the good ones – there was no bar, just coolers in its place. No dishwasher. No cell service. Two adorable grandpas who called the wairess nena. Rock FM on the stereo. Everyone in the neighborhood in the time it took me to drink a vermouth and scribble down some notes on pieces of paper I’d hastily ripped out of a notebook. A woman walked in with a crumpled water bottle and contemplated the taps on the wall. “Pues, moscatel quiero hoy.”

I took Catherine back the next day.

Carrer del Pintor Fortuny, 26. Open daily, though I could never tell you when.

Cervecería Moritz

I knew Barcelona produced Estrella Damm beer, but Moritz is served on tap at many bars in the region. Its namesake was the brewery’s founder, Louis Moritz. Barcelona has long been a haven for foreigners, and Moritz left his native France for the ciudad condal in the 1850s, setting up a small brewery in El Raval.

More than 160 years later, Moritz is the only beer in the world whose marketing is done entirely in Catalan, and their swanky headquarters is part museum, part brewery and part gastrobar. Though beer is no longer mass-produced on Ronda Sant Antoni, they do serve two types of unpasteurized beer that’s been made in-house. I had two – one of each flavor – for 3,80€.

My hunger had sometime dissipated by the time I got to Onofre, a tapas bar located just inside the Barri Gótic’s old city walls. Part restaurant, part wine shop, I was actually asked to get up from my seat when a patron wanted to snag a bottle of wine from right behind me. The place felt intimate – there was another lone diner and a group of business people chatting quietly at a table in the corner.

Without thinking much, I blindly ordered the menú del día without even checking out the tapas menu. As Adri points out in Eat Guides, quality tapas bars in the center of town are hard to come by, but Onofre does regional tapas and does them well. The menu featured three dishes: a creamy lentil purée, over-roasted provolone with red berries and a spicy carnitas burrito, followed up with a slice of cake. Overall, they were probably the best tapas I’ve had in Barcelona, but nothing terribly special. The four dishes and a beer cost 10,75€.

Good food isn’t completely absent of the Barcelona cuisine scene, though you have to know where to look. Any place on the Ramblas and Barri Gòtic (as well as near a touristic monument) is more or less off-limits, though Gràcia, Poblesec and Poblenou are said to be up-and-coming gastronomic hot spots.

Using what I’d read in Eat Guides, Saturday night would be a time to venture out on our own and see if we could find something good. We headed to Sant Antoni on foot to see the neighborhood’s Correfoc, a rain of sparks and firecrackers in the street. Even after a food tour in the morning, we were stuffed.

Casa Lucio spilled light onto the dark street. The place felt like a cave, with a small bar, seating downstairs and racks of wine on the wall. We ordered a few glass of Habla del Silencio and asked to see a menu. But there was none, so Lucio, a moody old dog with glasses and a thick white beard, listed what they had orally. The only other person who spoke English in the whole place was the waiter, Patrick.We ordered more than our fill, mainly pintxos of meats and cheeses, as well as a bottle of wine to take with us, for around 60€.

Carrer de Vildomat, 59. Open for lunch and dinner.

Eat Guides Barcelona

Having shared a meal with Regina as part of the Spain Scoop team, I knew that eats are important to her. It’s no surprise, then, that the Eat Guides ebook is a fun read and more than just a guide on where to eat – each listing has anecdotes, recommendations on what to order and drink from both vegetarian Regina and her carnivore co-author, plus a rough estimate on price for a meal for two.

The guide is also easy to use – there are numbered maps, guides by type of food and neighborhood, as well as a handy translation guide to catalan words that a Castillian speaker likely doesn’t know. And then, of course, there are plenty of listings for watering holes, along with tips for markets and gastro-themed side trips. If you like to eat, this book is a multi-course meal, served simply but that will leave you stuffed.

Regina and Adri are happy to give away one copy of Eat Guides to a SandS reader. If you’re planning a trip to Barcelona in the near future, this guide should be packed (digitally) in your carry-on!

There are some things in Seville that don’t need any further explanation – a cotton candy sunset over Triana, Plaza de España’s beautiful tile benches, the dreamy chords and staccato of a flamenco performance.

And then there’s the largest Gothic cathedral in the world and its stunning minaret. Visiting the rooftop has long been on my to-do list, and even with a guide recounting the history, lore and practicality of the temple, the views of La Hispalense needed no explanation.

Florentino met us at Puerta de San Miguel, adjacent to Avenida de la Constitución. It was a busy Saturday evening, and the streets were clogged with families and street performers. Once we’d stepped inside – our guide with an enormous key and soft feet – we’d get ground rules: watch your step, stay with the group, and don’t touch any wires.

We climbed a winding staircase, worn down by more than 600 years of history. Etched Stars of David, rhombuses and other figures were a testament to the 100 years it took to build the cathedral once the city was reconquered. It was dark and cramped, but we emerged just over the sacristy, affording us views of Plaza de Virgen de los Reyes below.

For someone who has climbed the Giralda and visited the cathedral itself two dozen times, I didn’t think the building and anchor any touristic route would hold much mystery.

Florentino reminded us to watch our step as I nearly tripped over a stone pod on the uneven surface. These devices were used as weights for the reliquia below – statues, paintings and even old altarpieces were hoisted using this archaic system. So, there, I learned something. He pointed out features in the building process, from the stained glass to the buttresses, navigated a labyrinth of staircases, rooms and small patios.

When you’ve admired the sprawling cathedral from below, it’s incredible to see the details up close. So close, in fact, that I received a shock from wires designed to keep pigeons away. Oops, broke rule three.

We climbed and climb, retracing the Latin cross as Florentino recounted the 500 chapels below our feet and lore about the construction and consecration of the cathedral. Like everyone else, I gasped when we reached the highest point of the tour.

We were just a few yards from the Giralda, and climbed up the dome of the sacristy to contemplate the tower. Along with the Patio de los Naranjos, the minaret is a trace of the mosque that stood here until the reconquest in the 12th century.

Entering the temple shortly after, we walked behind the organ on a small walkway that could only accommodate you if you squeezed by, careful not to trip over the wires that light the naves. I had lost Florentino’s voice by now, but that hardly mattered.

Once back on the ground, I could truly appreciate the immensity of the cathedral and its importance in Seville lore and history. The church built to inspire all those who see it to think that the architects and commissioners must have been crazy. Crazy, maybe.

If you go: Conocer Sevilla runs weekly visits to the cathedral rooftop – called the Cubertizo de la Catedral. Tours are about 90 minutes, cost 12 per person and it’s recommendable to wear comfortable clothing, as surfaces are unsteady and there is a bit of climbing involved. For more information and reservations, check Conocer Sevilla’s webpage.

I visited the cathedral as part of the Typical NonSpanish project with Caser Expat. For more on the project, visit their webpage or find them on twitter.

“Ok Boss, you take over now.” Mukul grinned widely as he took his hands off of the glorified bike handlebars that constitute the steering wheel, ignition and gas pedal of a tuk tuk, and motioned for me to take over. We were in the middle of rush hour traffic in Agra, India (which is, for the record, every waking hour of the day in my observation). My eyes most have grown wide in the rearview mirror because he took over again just as soon as I’d shaken my head no.

A tuk tuk is a ubiquitous symbol in many Asian and African countries, used to transport passengers most commonly. It’s like a motorized tricycle with a rudimentary automobile body resting on top. We had been warned: keep your hands and feet inside, and don’t take any babies offered to you on street corners.

From the first time we took one in Delhi – from our hostel in M Block to the Lotus temple – I was hooked. In fact, we’d skip bicycle-pulled rickshaws and even elephants to get around India, always amazed at how fast the little things zipped, and how easily they’d maneuver through traffic.

Tuk tuk drivers have to have their driver’s license, but you’d never know. On more than one occasion, I was nervous the thing would tip over (or I’d fall out) when a driver would take turns to fast, or that the whole “Oh, everyone honks their horn, even though it’s illegal” excuse was enough reason to garner a fine. It was thrilling but oftentimes scary.

In Delhi, we preferred taking the women’s only train car on the underground, but gritty Agra merited a tuk tuk. Mukul was employed by the homestay we’d be staying at and offered to be at our service the whole day – for 6€. The ride from the station took ten minutes, as the road ere clogged with commuters in trucks, cars, motorcycles and tuk tuks, along with the odd cow or goat. I was impressed with how the tuk tuk’s three wheels could navigate roundabouts with no clear traffic signs or lanes.

“You see, to drive is so fun!” Mukul said. I would take his word for it.

After dropping our bags and adding our names to an ancient guest book that registered travelers from all over the world, Mukul took us to the Taj Mahal. Built along the Yamuna River as a mausoleum to Shah Jahan’s third wife, the whole reason we’d come north was to see the building said to make the sun and moon shed cheers. He dropped up near the bazaars to the south of the complex and told us he’d wait there for two hours.

The Taj was stunning, just as I imagined it would be.

And that made Agra Fort, where Shah Jahan was imprisoned until his death, facing the mausoleum, all the more meh.

Deciding to skip the Baby Taj that afternoon for a nap (old habits die-hard, even while traveling), Mukul was waiting for us outside the homestay, napping himself with his feet sticking out of the tuk tuk. “Hop in boss! You drive?” he asked, stepping out of the vehicle.

We again declined and had him take us to the Mehtab Bagh, manicured lawns facing the northern facade of the Taj. We admired the temple from afar as the sun begin to wane. It was one of those moments where the world seemed to stop and I found myself nearly short of air – it’s that magical, and I felt at the same time 8 and 80 with wonder. I made an announcement:

“I’m going to ask if I can drive Mukul’s tuk tuk.” Hayley gave me the same bewildered look that I had given our driver that morning.

Mukul was having a chai tea at the stand across the street from where he’d left us, chatting with other drivers and holding the cup with just three fingers. He immediately sat up, gulp his tea down and unleashed the grin when I told him I’d like to take him up on his offer.

There wasn’t much of a learning curve: you switched on the engine, then rolled the handbar throttle to get the thing going. We tuk-tukked down the road back towards the Red Fort, Mukul sitting at my side to steady the handlebars. The cylinders seemed to be in the steering mechanism – I could feel all of the energy pulsating through my hands.

I felt like I was speeding, risking an accident (or insurance claim), like I could maybe take on the traffic on the ring road.

Then another vehicle passed and I told Mukul I was finished, just before we found the Muti Mahal neighborhood buzzing in the wake of the elections, which took place that very day. Marigold garlands had been strung in doorways, and people were drinking fizzy water while sitting on plastic chairs. We sped past them, honking.

“Ok, Boss! Next time you come to India, you drive to the city!” he offered, but Agra was sadly a disappointment overall.

We took one more tuk tuk ride with Mukul, from the home stay to the train station, stopping for a milky chai tea at a roadside hut. Ali would be waiting for us on the other side of a sleeper train with a decked out tuk tuk, stories from his guru and the same large grin it seemed every Indian we encountered had.

When I think about India, I can almost feel the two-stroke engine under my butt and the potholes, just the same as I taste a warm butter naan or smell the sandalwood.

On our last day in India, trying to spend our rupees as we suffered through a humid day in Mumbai, a street vendor on Elefanta Island was peddling small, plastic tuk tuks. We bargained him from 100 rupees each to 100 for both – about 1.30€. The toy barely fit in my bag, already replete from clothing purchases, tea and spices. It’s now sitting near my desk as a reminder of road trips, of awakened senses and that lonely road near the Mehtab Bagh.

If a mamarracho is a person who deserves no respect, relatively new tapas bars Mamarracha, on Hernando Colón, is not aptly named. I’d heard rumors of a new bar from the Ovejas Negras group, and despite the packed bar on a Saturday afternoon, I’d been assured that the wait was worth it.

What struck me immediately about the bar were two things: how calm the wait staff was with patrons practically hanging off the bar, and how sleek the interior looked. Like Ovejas Negras, the narrow space echoes an old ultramarinos, with slate black mixed with natural wood and a creamy turquoise tile accent. The space was choked, but the inviting back dining room features a garden wall and several tables. Lesson leaned (again) – don’t arrive at 3:30 p.m.

I grabbed a glass of wine and Kelly a tinto, and we went outside to escape the crowds, leaving our names with a hostess who had her hands full, yet chirped out off-menu specials seemingly every two minutes. We were able to snag the corner of a bar area and tucked into a menu featuring smoked meats, several options for vegetarians like K and an extensive wine list.

We started with a strawberry and beet salad with feta, along with a foccacia topped with cheese and veggies that we’d seen march by. I wasn’t a fan of the acidic Ribera wine I’d sampled and switched to beer.

What differentiates Mamarracha from ON down the street is that they have word-burning stoves and indoors grills, so I wanted to try some meat. Kelly ordered veggies in tempura, and I asked the waitress for a recommendation. She offered up the corral chicken, which came with a chimichurri sauce, and a baked sweet potato, plus a tapa of morcilla.

All of the food was tasty and fresh, though I had to send the chicken back for being undercooked. By the time it came back, I was nearly stuffed but couldn’t pass up a dessert. We chose a sevillano favorite – homemade torrijas with vanilla bean ice cream.

The bill was adequate for all we’d consumed – five plates, a dessert, a glass of wine, two beers and three tintos – 54€. We left satisfied and practically rolled over to Ines Rosales next door, where we bought Christmas goodies for our families.

If you go: Mamarracha is located right down the street from the Ayuntamiento and the main exit of the Cathedral, on Hernando Colón 1 y 3. Opening hours are daily 1:30pm to 4pm and 8:30pm to 11:30pm. Arrive early if you’d like to sit or eat promptly!

I ate at Mamarracha as part of the Typical NonSpanish Project with Caser Expat. But don’t worry – all opinions and calories are my own!

At 5:04, I realized the champagne hadn’t been poured and the grapes hadn’t been sectioned off into groups of a dozen yet. We’d missed Spain’s ringing in of the new year, and just like 2014 passed in a flash, amidst a flurry of giggles and general catching up, I’d failed to take notice of how fast the time was creeping along. I popped the grapes in my mouth, washing it down with a swig of champagne as my friends watched, half amused and half horrified. What can I say? I’m superstitious, and I want this year to count.

2015 has always been in the back of my mind as the year I would turn 30, and it’s already here. As my wise (and sassy) great aunt Mary Jane says, Years are like toilet paper rolls. The further along you are, the faster things run out.

I’m one to reflect, and I seriously love making resolutions. Setting goals has always helped me stay on track and continue to better certain aspects of my life. My biggest goals after college were to move abroad, become fluent in Spanish and travel to 25 countries, and then eventually get a master’s degree. So what now, considering I’ve got that all ticked off my list?

This year, as I mark two big milestones, I want to make it all about me.

In 2015

1. I’m going to make more time for me and for more important things than working all the time.

I’ll get it out in the open right away: I’m going to be shuffling priorities this year, and maintaining Sunshine and Siestas may fall a bit lower on my list. This blog is important to me, but it’s taking up time that could be used on other things I need to get done.

I’ll be updating once a week, minimum, but considering I have two other websites to keep at, I’ll likely be writing longer form articles and working on my Typical NonSpanish project with Caser Expat.

I’ll still be active on social media, particularly Facebook and Instagram, so head there if you’re dying to know what I’m eating, mostly.

2. I’m going to make a conscious effort to write offline

All that time not spent sitting behind a computer might actually get me up on my awesome terrace so that I can jot down personal things in my life.

I even bought a new notebook, and this list was the first thing in it. Toma, goals.

3. I’m going to drink less beer and more water.

I don’t love this reolustion, but if my altitude sickness and gut can attest to this last trip to the US, I’d be healthier and a bit slimmer if I didn’t love beer so darn much. I had to make a choice, though: deprive myself from delicious food, or to lay off the Cruzcampo.

But I do love drinking beer on the water…

This may mean behaving during the week, swapping the beer for a glass of tinto or even just having a sin every once in a while, but my wedding will be full of craft beer, and I will gladly drink up.

4. I’m going to be better about staying in touch.

I may suffer from a mild form of reverse culture shock when I land at O’Hare once or twice a year, I am fortunate to have a beautiful group of friends back home with whom I’m still close. You know, the sort that you don’t see for to years (or even six, in Val’s case this Christmas) but never run out of topics to talk about, or college mishaps to laugh over.

But even with Facebook and whatsapp and a million other ways to stay in touch, I don’t make enough time for Skype and emails. I’m looking forward to my wedding as a time to have my más queridos in one place, but that’s one day when I’ll see them for a split second. And with everyone getting older, making plans and moving way (that’s the pot calling the kettle black if I ever heard it), there’s no time like now.

5. and 6. I’m going to learn something new, one of those being to learn to cook.

I’ve said I’m going to learn to cook for ages, but recently I’ve actually enjoyed making new dishes and reinventing old ones. Plus, it’s cheaper than eating out all the time.

I’d also like to learn a new skill, like lightroom or CSS for the benefit of this blog, or relearn how to sew. For real, 30 is making me feel like I need a lot more skills than I have. Napping is not a skill, as much as I try to make it happen.

7. I’m going to take better care of my skin, cuticles and nails.

I am about as low maintenance as they come, and my skin and hands have suffered because of it. I have ugly nails, ugly hands and skin that should be taken better care of. This means taking off my makeup every night and getting more regular hair trims, but so be it!

8. I’m going to read more books.

Reading is one of my great passions, but TV binge watching while moving and unpacking got the better of me this year. When I did my master’s, I was still able to polish off 25 or 30 books, so I’ll be pushing for 20 this year. I’m nearly done with my first: Yo, Cayetana, an autobiography of the Duquesa de Alba and in Spanish. That counts for two, right?

Thankfully, my sister is an English teacher and sends countless recommendations, and my e-reader comes with my to the gym, but no more TV before bed. Besides, it may be killing us.

9. I’m going to make travel more meaningful.

When I first came to Spain in 2007, I drained my bank account running around to European capitals on cramped budget airlines, staying in accommodation that was questionable and eating countless kabobs in the street, all in the name of passport stamps and ticking things off the list. Travel was fun, but it wasn’t meaningful.

From now on, I want my money to be better spent on travel. I want experiences, not countries. Food and not tourist sites. I want to hit the streets of a new place or visit family. I’ve just been invited to Romania on a blog trip, and I can’t wait to explore the country more over Semana Santa.

10. I’m going to save money.

A year ago, 100% of my salary was for me to enjoy, be it on weekends trips, tapas out with friends or even a taxi. Since buying a house, I’ve had to take a serious look at the money I make and how much I spend.

The last few months of 2014 were hard – I haven’t lived paycheck to paycheck for a few years – and the start of the mortgage coincided with the two months of the year I don’t get paid. Then there were the new break pads, a visiting friend, furniture to purchase. Needless to say, the money I’d worked to save last year while still treating myself is long gone, and I remember it every time I sit on our new (amazing) couch.

I’m making a pledge to put away a minimum of 150€ a month, going as far as to map out my weird expenses, like insurance or the odd plane ticket. I may even get a retirement account!

11. I’m going to remember to go with my gut.

When I visited Jaipur in 2014, Ali took us to see his guru. Skeptical from the moment he mentioned it, we weren’t surprised to see that this guru also had a jewelry shop, and that he wanted us to buy. But when we went into a back office and he began to make shockingly accurate claims about our families, I decided to listen.

The man told me I had a white aura, meaning my crown chakra. At that point in my life, I felt happy and satisfied with everything – my relationships, my job, and the life I’d created. The crown chakra is connected with positivity, inspiration and trust. With the big changes in my life (and the stress of planning a wedding abroad), I’m remembering to trust my instincts, make a decision and stop second guessing myself.

12. I’m going to remember that it’s ok to say no.

I had the opportunity to meet Geada Ford, a brand consultant who has worked with Martha Stuart, and have her over to my house in October. She gave me advice that I wish someone had given me when I was far younger: it’s OK to say no. As someone who likes pleasing people and being able to help when I’m asked, saying no is hard.

But it’s time to say no to people who won’t make me happy, plans that I don’t feel like making, sponsorships that don’t fit into my niche.

Rather than using ‘stop’ or ‘will,’ I wanted to hold myself accountable and start the year on a positive note, despite a few small hiccups. I’m going to make my time count, my health important and my relationships worth leaving the computer for.

What are you resolutions and propósitos for 2015? I’m interested in hearing!

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Hola, soy Cat.

I'm a Chicago girl who turned down a job in radio and turned up in Seville, Spain. Especially akin to tapas, siestas and frilly flamenco dresses. S&S is my virtual love letter to Southern Spain. [Más …]